


Fallen Angel of Music

by lyriumandmentats



Series: Various Storms and Saints [1]
Category: Phantom of the Opera (2004), Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Crossover, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Guilty Pleasure Fanfic, I'm sorry I just really wanted to write this, M/M, Slow Burn, phantom!Castiel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-21
Updated: 2017-07-21
Packaged: 2018-12-04 22:19:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11564472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lyriumandmentats/pseuds/lyriumandmentats
Summary: Something is terribly wrong with Castiel. After his grace 'malfunctions' it sends Dean...somewhere. Somewhere that seems oddly familiar. A certain opera house said to be haunted by a phantom. A phantom who leaves behind a single red rose, and whose bright blue eyes are impossible not to recognize.I'm writing this because I have so many ideas for Destiel crossovers that this practically writes itself. It'll take a while to update, but it'll eventually be worth it if you stick around. Rating for language, violence, and possible adult content in later chapters.





	1. Chapter 1

It started out like most days. Slight headache, dry mouth, sore throat. Dean heaved himself up from the mattress, untangling his legs from the tightly wound cocoon of sheets, stretching his protesting muscles. He and Sam and Castiel were staying at some cheap motel, as was their norm, so he grumbled a half-awake 'good morning' to his brother and friend before stumbling into the bathroom and turning the shower on.

Several minutes later, Dean emerged in a cloud of steam, toweling his hair. “So. Anybody up for breakfast before we head out?”

Sam raised his hand, silent as his eyes were fixed on his laptop. Castiel looked up at Dean with those impossibly blue eyes and muttered something that sounded like 'yes.'

Dean nodded and gestured to the door. “Do you guys want to go somewhere, or should I just bring back donuts or breakfast sandwiches or something?”

“Sounds good, Dean,” Sam mumbled, typing away.

Dean shook his head. “Right. I'll be back.”

It started out like most drives. Rock music playing, the windows cracked just enough to ruffle Dean's hair. He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel to the beat of the music. 

It seemed like most days, but Dean couldn't help but feel like this was anything but. Something was wrong. And he had some idea why.

He would never, ever tell anyone, especially not Sam, but Dean had been checking on Castiel while he slept. He was worried about him. Several weeks back, Cas had told Dean that something was wrong with his vessel. Jimmy Novak, he had said, was growing weak. True, Jimmy hadn't been in there for a long time, but the meat suit he left behind for Cas was growing thin. It wouldn't be long before it would not be able to contain Castiel's grace, and then the angel would have no choice but to seek a new vessel.

Despite Castiel's many attempts to explain what exactly was happening, Dean couldn't quite understand why the vessel had been perfectly fine up until now. And he couldn't imagine Castiel looking like anything but what he did currently. Dean would never, ever admit it, but he found his own eyes lingering on those blue ones far longer than he should, gazing into them with what he could only describe as longing.

But he would never, ever admit to anyone that he was falling in love.

Not to Castiel.

Not even to himself.

It started out like any other day. But that was not what this day was. It was a very bad day, Dean soon found out, when his phone rang and Sam's desperate voice hollered from the other end that he had better get his ass back to the motel ASAP. Something was wrong with Cas. 

Dean drove back as fast as he could, not even swearing when he took a turn too sharp and knocked over his coffee onto the floor of the Impala. His face was unreadable, lips set into a thin line, eyes staring straight forward as he pressed down on the accelerator until it would not go down any further.

When he came to a screeching stop, smoke rising from his tires, Dean threw his door open and sprinted up to their room. Sam was waiting for him outside, looking shaken. “He won't let me in there. Says it's too dangerous.”

Dean gave Sam a look before grabbing his shoulder. He knocked on the door, and was greeted with silence.

“Is it locked?” he asked. Sam nodded.

Dean took the doorknob in hand and tried anyway. He pounded on the door, growing agitated as his anxiety level rose. “Cas! Cas, let me in!” Again, the reply was silence.

In the back of his mind, Dean knew he would have to pay to fix the door, but he ignored the thought as he kicked against the wood as hard as he could. The wood crackled and splintered, caving in on itself in a puff of dust.

Dean scrambled into the room, shouting Cas's name at the top of his lungs. 

The angel stood in the center of the room, head turned to the ceiling, eyes closed in a dreamy expression. His hands were at his sides, palms upwards, lips moving in what Dean assumed was some kind of silent prayer. 

“Cas, what are you doing?!” Dean grabbed his friend by the shoulder. “What the hell is going on?”

The hand on Cas's shoulder immediately burned as if he had placed it on a hot stovetop. Dean recoiled, green eyes wide, as heat began radiating from Castiel in waves. Those blue eyes opened and fixed Dean with an empty stare.

“Goodbye.”

The resulting burst of what Dean could only describe as energy was far more intense than anything he had ever experienced in his life. It was a light so bright that it was like someone dropped a white sheet in front of his eyes. Dean clapped his hands over his ears as a roaring noise rushed past him.

Somewhere beyond that, he thought he heard someone yelling his name. Someone who sounded vaguely like Sam. Dean tried to respond, but the roaring wind that had come up out of nowhere stole his breath away. He felt himself falling and threw out his arms, bracing himself to hit the floor. 

Only, the floor never came. At least, not the dirty motel rug he'd been expecting. Dean landed flat on his back on something far harder than that, breath knocked from his lungs as his vision blacked out.

“Cas,” he croaked, before giving in to the comforting darkness.


	2. Chapter 2

There were several voices somewhere above him, a few familiar but most of them not. Dean squirmed a bit before realizing he was still laying flat on whatever surface he'd landed on. 

Landed on? He tried to move, but his limbs felt like they weighed a thousand pounds a piece. Something seriously weird was going on. Whatever mojo Cas had released in his...episode had really done a number on him.

Cas. 

Dean had to find out what had happened to him.

His eyes snapped open, blinking several times to clear up his blurred vision. People were crowded around him. Sam was kneeling near his head, someone who looked like Gabriel (but that was impossible; Dean had seen him skewered) standing at his side. 

“Take it slow,” Sam warned, putting a hand on Dean's wrist. “That was quite a fall you had there.”

Dean made a confused noise. “The way you're talking, Sammy, I'd say you hit your head pretty hard, too.”

His brother pulled a face. “Uh, Sammy? Bit of an odd nickname, Monsieur Winchester.”

Dean blinked several more times as someone behind him helped him sit up. Sam continued to watch him with a somewhat suspicious look on his face. Okay, Dean had thought there was something wrong here, but something was majorly wrong here. Everyone was wearing clothes that looked straight out of the history books. Women in corsets and petticoats, men in tails and cravats and top hats. Dean looked down and saw himself in something similar. 

Whoa, he thought to himself, I've definitely got a concussion or something if I'm hallucinating all of this shit. 

“You look good in tails, man,” Dean teased, nodding towards Sam's outfit.

“Uh...thank you?” Sam looked even more confused than before. “Anyhow, are you well? Should we send for a doctor?”

Dean lifted a weary arm and felt around the back of his head. Strangely enough, he felt no bumps or dents. So he just shrugged and shook his head. Hopefully he would wake up on the floor of the motel room soon.

“No, I think I'm all right for now, thanks,” he replied. “What...happened, exactly?”

“It was the Phantom!” piped a small, feminine voice.

The crowd erupted into chaos, several women openly mocking the speaker (a pretty little blonde girl wearing – what the hell? – a ballet outfit) while others whispered and shot scandalized looks at one another.

Sam rolled his eyes. “There is no Phantom,” he said, obviously annoyed. “What happened is simple. You were trying to repair something up in the flies and fell.”

There were more excited whispers as the same small voice chimed in.

“But Monsieur Campbell, I saw Monsieur Winchester, and he did not fall. He was pushed! By the Phantom!”

Before Sam could say anything, Gabriel chimed in. “That's enough from you, Miss Giry. Perhaps if you spent as much time rehearsing as you did staring up into nothing, you would not be perpetually stuck in the chorus.”

Several people snickered at that, but Sam gave Gabriel a wounded look. “There was no call for that, Monsieur Gabriel,” he scolded. “But I do agree. This so-called Phantom of the Opera is nothing more than playful fantasy. I suggest you all take the afternoon to rest. After all, tomorrow is opening night.”

It took some time for the crowd to disperse, and Sam helped Dean up onto his feet. Dean rubbed his head. He didn't know why he was dreaming of some musical he'd never seen (in it's entirety, at least) but he would play along for the time being.

“Thank you, Monsieur Campbell,” he said. “Er, what should I be doing?”

Gabriel wrinkled his nose. “You won't be doing anything,” he said. “You have done quite enough to yourself already today. Besides, tomorrow is opening day, and I am sure you would hate to miss the gala. What with the wine and women and all.”

Dean laughed. “Yeah, that would be a real bummer.”

Sam and Gabriel exchanged looks. “Whatever a 'bummer' is, yes, I suppose it would be,” Sam said. “Now, Madame Giry set aside one of the old rooms backstage for you. She thinks it would be best if you rest here for the night and that it would be too dangerous for you to walk down the street, lest you fall unconscious again.”

Dean shrugged. “Whatever you say,” he mumbled.

<><><><><>

It took a while, but eventually Dean found Madame Giry, who was actually pretty hard to miss. She was, to put it nicely, a severe looking woman, her greying hair braided and pulled into a bun at the back of her head. When she turned her steely, hawk-like eyes on Dean, he felt like she were glaring into his chest, willing his heart to mash itself into a bloody pulp.

“Ah, Monsieur Winchester,” she said, giving a polite nod in his direction.

“Madame Giry,” he said, nodding in reply.

She gave him a smile that was a bit nicer than he had anticipated. 

“I hope you find the room to your liking. It was the best I could do on such short notice.”

The woman led him off of the stage (which was, evidently, the place he had landed, or at least woken up) and down a hall to what appeared to be an old dressing room (really damn old, judging by the dust on everything), complete with a large mirror leaning up against the far wall. A smallish bed had hastily been set up, and a suitcase, which Dean assumed was his, sat upon the quilted blanket.

“I think it'll be just fine,” Dean said. 

After all, he thought to himself, I'll be waking up on the motel floor just as soon as I fall asleep anyway. 

“I am most pleased to hear it,” Madame Giry replied. “Ah, and I have this for you, Monsieur Winchester.” She held out an envelope, with Dean's name written across it in an elegant, yet familiar, script. “A message to you from the Opera Ghost. Do not worry. He favors you.”

Dean took the envelope, staring at the woman with utter confusion. Opera Ghost? Phantom? What the hell was even going on here? Was this going to be another dream about hunting? Just like him to have a dream about work. Why couldn't he ever have normal, nice dreams about chasing rainbows or shit like that?

“Thanks, I guess?”

Madame Giry excused herself with a bow, closing the door behind her.

Dean turned over the envelope in his hands, finding it sealed with a blob of red wax, an insignia pressed into it. An insignia that looked oddly like a feather.

To Monsieur Dean Winchester  
Welcome to my Opera House. I apologize for your unfortunate accident earlier. The parties guilty will be dealt with shortly. In the meantime, please enjoy yourself, particularly at tomorrow night's gala. I work exceptionally hard to ensure that my managers provide the highest quality in entertainments, so rest easy knowing you are well taken care of. And I will be watching over you as well.

Your faithful servant,  
O.G. 

PS: Please do not assume my mention of watching you to be hostile. I am always cautious when it comes to newcomers, for your sake and for mine. – O.G.

Dean blinked several times at the letter. Yep, something was definitely, royally fucked up here. He stuffed the paper back into the envelope and shoved that under his bed, vowing to himself that he'd never look at it again. But when he crawled into bed and closed his eyes, suddenly exhausted, he felt the gaze of eyes from all around him, and his mind was filled with one thing only:

And I will be watching over you as well. 

“Cas,” Dean gasped, before he felt the familiar tug of darkness pull him into dreams.


End file.
